


we don't talk about this

by litteraries (mysoulrunswithwolves)



Series: The Hundred-aching Woods [1]
Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Winnie-the-Pooh - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, this document is called regrets.docx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysoulrunswithwolves/pseuds/litteraries
Summary: Eeyore’s hair has gotten so out of control that Darcy wants to die.He doesn’t die, obviously, because he’s a gentleman with a substantial estate to his name and Eeyore’s just, like, some irrelevant hipster with overlarge black frames and an artful collection of plaid and beanies and a truly obscene number of vintage shoes and that is not a man worth dying for, tastefully layered glossy black hair or no.So.Instead of dying, Darcy sends Eeyore a classy ass pair of shears in a padded, mahogany box delivered to Eeyore’s equally classy (and historic! Eeyore never lets him forget that it’s historic, Darcy) London brownstone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a very specific _thing_ and I will deny ever having written it.

Eeyore’s hair has gotten so out of control that Darcy wants to _die._

He doesn’t die, obviously, because he’s a _gentleman_ with a substantial estate to his name and Eeyore’s just, like, some irrelevant hipster with overlarge black frames and an artful collection of plaid and beanies and a truly _obscene_ number of vintage shoes and that is not a man worth dying for, tastefully layered glossy black hair or no.

So.

Instead of dying, Darcy sends Eeyore a classy ass pair of shears in a padded, mahogany box delivered to Eeyore’s equally classy (and historic! Eeyore never lets him forget that it’s _historic, Darcy_ ) London brownstone.

 _Fuck u,_ Eeyore texts him later that day.

 _Listen, darling, it’s time we did something about that hair. It’s gotten far too long for a sensible gentleman,_ Darcy returns smugly.

Eeyore doesn’t respond for at least two hours, and when he does, it’s just with a cut-off, slightly blurry picture of himself in a pair of tight lavender boxer briefs. He’s curling his stomach in, the angle doing everything and then some to the long, lean lines of his body, his lightly tousled ebony hair falling in gentle waves around his frowning face and framing his neck and clavicles perfectly and—

Darcy sulkily jerks off in the shower before sending back a petulant grey ghost emoji.

 _Gonna eat u out til u cry,_ Eeyore answers, and Darcy shudders harder than he had after his _actual_ orgasm. _Not gonna cut my hair first._

  _Darling, we’ve talked about this,_ Darcy shoots back. _This is not how gentlemen speak to each other._

All he gets in response is a picture of Eeyore flipping him off, the British way, and Darcy wonders for the third time this week why he’s dating this man. Eeyore’s not even _British_.

 _Love you too,_ he replies.

 _You’re dead to me,_ Eeyore tells him.

Darcy smirks, knowing an ‘I love you, too’ from Eeyore when he sees it.

***

It’s not like Darcy’s been courting Eeyore, with varying degrees of success, ever since he ran into him at this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with like, _beanbags_ for seating options and coffee in giant, impractical mugs shaped like honey jars, except that’s exactly what he’s been doing.

***

It’s one of the rare, quite nights when neither of them feel energetic enough for sex, so instead they throw one of Eeyore’s incredibly sappy romantic-comedies into the Blu-ray player and lazily make out on the old grey couch in Eeyore’s brownstone that Darcy, personally, feels is an _actual_ health hazard by now.

He kisses his way up Eeyore’s neck, pulling him closer until he’s halfway sitting in Darcy’s lap, and works his way over to his ear.

“Oh, wait,” Eeyore says, pushing Darcy’s face away from the shell of his ear where Darcy had been doing some of his best work, really. “This is a good part.”

Darcy squints up at the TV and watches the scene unfold.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his fingers working their way slowly through the silky strands of Eeyore’s hair. “She’s honestly too pretty for him.” He gestures with his free hand to the actress onscreen.

“ _I’d fuck her sweet angel pussy,”_ Eeyore mumbles under his breath.

“Pardon me?” Darcy asks, incensed.

Eeyore glances at him from the corner of his eye. “…if I swung that way, that is.”

“I,” Darcy starts, before stopping as he realizes that he’s actually speechless. Instead he stares blankly at Eeyore in a sort of dazed shock.

“I was kidding, Darc,” Eeyore deadpans, patting him consolingly on the back.

Darcy manages to nod back, taking a deep breath as he reaches for his glass of water on the coffee table.

“I’m way too good at sucking cock to waste my time with women, anyway.”

Darcy chokes, then spends the next ten minutes trying to expel water from his lungs.

***

Eeyore has, for better or worse, always managed to surprise Darcy.

“The actual fuck is that?” Darcy half yells as Eeyore shimmies out of his pants. Either Darcy has been ignorant of a very important part of his boyfriend’s body, or Eeyore has suddenly grown a tail.

“Do you not like it?” Eeyore asks in his smooth baritone as he turns around, giving Darcy an unimpeded view of the grey felt tail tucked between the pale cheeks of his ass. Pink bow at the end of the tail and everything.

He tries not to think about how much of a turn-on it is.

“Would you…” Darcy pauses, lets his voice drop a little lower as he wraps his arms around Eeyore’s narrow hips and presses against him. “Like me to nail that in a little more securely for you?” He rolls his hips against Eeyore hard enough that Eeyore has to brace one hand against the wall to keep his balance.

Eeyore turns his head and looks at him over his shoulder. “Actually, I was thinking I’d nail you this time.”

Darcy gapes at Eeyore’s unexpected assertiveness.

“With the tail,” Eeyore adds.

Darcy’s thoughts stutter to a halt until all he hears is the AOL dial up tone echoing soundlessly in the hollow space of his skull. 

Before he can regain his normal amount of control over his thoughts, Eeyore has turned around in his arms and started pushing him back toward his bed.

Darcy finally remembers how to move about the same time Eeyore goes down on him.

“ _Shit,”_ he says, suddenly remembering what was happening as his body become a sudden participant without his conscious decision. Eeyore’s arm comes up to press his hips into the mattress to keep him from bucking up into his mouth too hard.

Darcy gasps as Eeyore sucks up in one smooth pull and tangles his fingers in the perfect waves of black hair to pull him up and kiss him before he comes from the sensation of Eeyore’s mouth on him.

But Eeyore is relentless tonight, and with a calculated, smooth motion he slides into Darcy at the same moment that he deepens the kiss. Darcy tries not to fall apart _instantly_ as Eeyore begins to move after a moment with deep and steady thrusts.

“There’s something that I need to tell you,” Darcy hisses, breaking the kiss to suck a lovely purple mark into the pale skin of Eeyore’s clavicle. Eeyore’s impossibly sensitive there and his broken, shuddering moans make Darcy’s knees feel like he’s been doing downhill sprints for an hour. “My—my _grandmother_ has better taste in music than you do.”

Eeyore manages to detach his lips from Darcy’s neck to give him a truly impressive frown as he says, “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” Darcy manages to say as Eeyore squeezes his ass and runs a too-dry, too-rough finger around the stretched-out rim of his hole. And they don’t usually banter during sex, but then again, Darcy isn’t usually on the bottom, so.

“The one who married her cousin?”

“Oh, fuck—fuck _off_ , I’m going to Ancestry.com you _so hard,_ ” Darcy says, arching his spine and rolling his hips and forcibly reigning in the urge to _beg_ Eeyore to touch him, holy _shit._ “ _So hard,”_ he emphasizes instead. Gentlemen don’t _beg._

Eeyore snorts and teases Darcy’s bottom lip between his teeth. “How hard, exactly?”

“Harder than you’re _fucking me_ ,” Darcy snaps, which is a blatant and frankly pointless lie because Eeyore’s better at sex than he is a being a pretentious and perpetually sulky hipster and Eeyore’s _really shitting good at being a sulky hipster._ Darcy can still remember popping a super uncomfortable, not to mention _horrifying_ , boner the first time he saw Eeyore singing while playing the guitar at open-mic night at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop.

Now, though, Eeyore’s got this annoying shit-eating grin on his face like he _knows_ Darcy is lying so Darcy reaches up and applies _just_ enough pressure to the place where Eeyore’s tail is attached to his body to make Eeyore gasp with pleasure as Eeyore yanks him forward on the bed a little bit, and—and— _oh_ —hell, yeah, that’s his prostate. Being nailed. Repeatedly. With _precision._

“You’re gonna—you’re gonna _feel this_ tomorrow when you go to work at that capitalist corporation on your ridiculously and frankly _unnecessary_ motorcycle,” Eeyore says, voice low and gravelly, deep enough that Darcy already feels it thrumming into his bones just like it does when Eeyore sings his songs with nothing backing him except the warm notes of his guitar. “You’re gonna feel it, and you’re gonna—”

“I’m going to what?” Darcy pants, biting a bruise to the hinge of Eeyore’s jaw.

“You’re going to think about me,” Eeyore says with that same, obnoxiously understated confidence he always seems to have. “Gonna think about me, inside you,” Eeyore says, muscles shaking against Darcy’s. “Gonna think about—about this _tail_ and how much you _like it_ and, shit, gonna—gonna come—”

And Darcy is right there with him, can feel the heat spiraling out of control in his lower abdomen. “Me too, I’m—Eeyore—”

Their eyes lock, black on brown on _black_ , and Eeyore wraps his hand around the head of Darcy’s cock.

“Yeah,” Eeyore murmurs. “Just like that. C’mon.”

So, Darcy does.

***

In his defense, Darcy didn’t _mean_ to shamelessly flirt with the cute barista at the truly terrible, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that he was forced to go to because construction on his office’s block kept him from going to his usual haunt. It just sort of happened.

One minute he was focusing on the menu, wondering if he dared try whatever strange amalgamation _The Honey Jar Latte_ is or if he was better off sticking with plain coffee, and the next minute he was looking into a pair of eyes so dark they looked black and completely, one hundred percent, gone.

The barista coughs, raising an eyebrow and asking, “Welcome to Hundred-acre Wood coffee, can I take your order?” in one of the most soulless voices he’s ever heard.

“Um,” Darcy hums, hoping to buy himself time to recover. He glances down at the name tag on the barista’s apron. Eeyore.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me,_ Darcy thinks. The last ‘e’ is written backwards. Darcy might actually want to _die._

“I’ll have a soy latte,” he finally manages.

Wordlessly, _Eeyore_ holds out his hand in a demand for payment, and to Darcy’s horror he begins to speak as he hands over his platinum AmEx card.

“Eeyore’s a unique name,” he blurts. Inwardly he kicks himself, trying desperately to stop his mouth from speaking but he’s already saying, “It’s very pretty. Where does it come from?” before he can stop himself.

Eeyore just shrugs. “Family name I guess.”

“Still, that’s a pretty unique name,” Darcy says, trying to prolong the conversation. He’s just noticed how Eeyore’s hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, and how the shorter layers fall naturally around his face, creating a natural framing for his eyes and truly _spectacular_ cheekbones.

 “My parents named me after this depressingly sad donkey they had before I was born and like, it’s weird but I deal with it.” Eeyore shrugs again, looking bored. “They gave me a cat when I found out they’d named me after an ass.”

“Fascinating,” Darcy says as Eeyore hands him a steaming, gigantic mug of coffee. He is thankful, for perhaps the first time ever, that his weekly poker games with Bingley have given him a good poker face. As bad as Fitzwilliam is as a first name, being named after an actual ass would be much worse.

Eeyore seems to take his comment for what it is, rather than for the cover-up for horror that it really was, and hops up onto the counter. Darcy looks around, wondering if he’s holding up a line or something by talking to Eeyore, but they’re the only ones in the shop and he really can’t help but ask, “I’m Darcy, by the way. Do you like cats?”

Eeyore blinks at him behind his oversized black frames and _good Lord_ they don’t even have lenses. He’s talking to a hot young barista who wears oversized black frames for _aesthetic_ and he cannot believe that he’s attracted to him but he _is._

“I fucking love cats,” he says, in the straightest, deadest voice Darcy’s ever heard another human use.

“Really? Me too,” Darcy hears himself say. He doesn’t. Like cats, that is. He prefers the company of his hunting dogs, but he’ll be dammed if something like this prevents him from walking away with Eeyore’s number.  

“Hey, Eeyore,” he begins, because he was raised to be a gentleman. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?”

If Eeyore is surprised, he does a great job hiding it. He sits up straighter on the counter, giving Darcy a long, penetrating look.

Darcy takes a sip of his latte. It’s sub-par and burns his tongue.

“Yeah, okay,” Eeyore finally says. He grabs a nearby napkin and pulls a sharpie from a pocket of his apron to scrawl his number on the napkin before handing it to Darcy.

Darcy places his mug on the counter and takes the napkin. “Wonderful. I will text you a date and time.”

“I’ll see you around, I guess,” Eeyore says, seeming a bit put out that he’s leaving already.

“Yes, you will,” Darcy promises, turning and heading for the door. “Oh, and thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime,” Eeyore says quietly as he walks out of the Hundred-acre Wood and into the spring sunshine.

***

Two months later Darcy is walking into his office, smirking down at his phone while he takes the mail his assistant is holding out to him.

 _I’m looking forward to open-mic night,_ he texts Eeyore as he settles into his chair, swiveling around to look out the windows instead of his office door. _They’re going to love you as much as I do._

 _Ugh ur so sappy in literally the most commercial way,_ Eeyore immediately replies.

_You like it._

A couple of minutes pass without a response, but then: _no I don’t_

 _A gentleman never lies,_ Darcy sends back. He swivels back around, figuring he should start getting actual work done.

 _Bullshit,_ Eeyore says, and Darcy can hear the disgust in the words. _U told me the first time we met that u liked cats and you hate cats_

“What the hell do you look so happy about?” Bingley asks, walking into his office and sprawling across from him in a chat and yawning into his fist.

“Good morning to you, too,” Darcy greets. “How are you?”

Bingley heaves a far heavier sigh than any man in his late twenties has a reason to and says, “Jane has decided that we need to eat healthier and sent me to work with _homemade granola_ and I’m, like, _this close_ to wishing for the apocalypse.”

  _I know you secretly want me to put a ring on it don’t pretend otherwise,_ Darcy types back smugly before stuffing his phone in his pocket.

***

It goes like this:

Darcy learns, rather quickly, that his friends either think Eeyore is hilarious or they think he’s weird. Bingley thinks Eeyore is great.

Jane wonders why he wears glasses without frames.

Darcy has stopped trying to explain.

“Are you sure he really likes you?” Jane asks one evening as they have dinner in her and Charles’ disgustingly charming love nest of a townhome. They both watch as, across the parlor from them, Eeyore completely ignores whatever Bingley is trying to say to him in favor of petting their fluffy white Persian.

Darcy squints, avoiding eye contact as he says, “I mean, I’m pretty sure?”

“Pretty sure?” Jane looks skeptical as in front of them Bingley reaches out to stroke Snowflake, curled up in Eeyore’s lap, only to get hissed at.

“I mean, he never tells me that he loves me, but I think he does,” Darcy says.

Eeyore subtly scoots away from Bingley on the couch, putting himself and Snowflake just out of reach.

“You _think he does?”_  Jane whispers in shock.

Bingley looks over at them in curiosity before returning to playing with the pale pink tassels of Jane’s meticulously selected throw pillows.

“Well, we’ve only been dating for three months?” Darcy hedges quietly, trying not to make this a bigger deal than it actually is. “It’s like, he’s never said it back? He always responds with something like ‘ _you’re disgustingly commercial about love’_ or _‘you’re dead to me,”_ but I always know what he really means.”

He glances over at Jane and promptly helps her pick up her jaw off the floor. He waits while she recovers and is thankful, not for the first time, that Eeyore is unable to focus on anything else whenever there is a cat in the room.

“And you’re sure he doesn’t actually hate you?” Jane finally asks, skepticism written all over her face.

Darcy shrugs. “I’m not sure that it matters? I mean, the sex is fantastic regardless of how much affection he returns to me.” Darcy pauses for a moment and contemplates. “Besides,” he continues, “I don’t need him to love me like I love him,” Darcy lies through his perfectly straight white teeth.

“Darcy,” Jane says, and although she doesn’t yet have children her disappointed mother face is so good that Darcy actually cringes. “You have to remember that people show and express love in different ways. Not everybody falls fast and deep like you do. I mean, I don’t have to tell you what Lizzie would say and—”

“Yes, I know what _Lizzie_ would say,” Darcy says snidely, curling his lip. It’s not like he _dislikes_ Jane’s feisty younger sister, it’s just that she’s alarmingly astute and that’s always made him _distinctly_ uncomfortable. He’s fairly certain that Lizzie knew he was gay before _he_ knew he was gay.

“Okay well,” Janes hedges just as their butler comes in and informs them that “Dinner is ready in the main dining room.”

“As long as you’re happy, I guess,” she says just before they join Charles and Eeyore and walk into the dining room.

He’s happy. Perfectly content.

He is.

***

 _Ur a complete arse,_ Lizzie texts him, three days later.

 _Fuck, you talked to Jane,_ he sends. Then: _I can’t believe she told you. I’m going to kill her._

_Ofc she bloody well told me u cock sucking fukr. I can’t believe u managed to fall in luv wit someone who hates u as much as I do._

_You know you love me, don’t play this game with me,_ he fires back, completely ignoring the stack of paperwork on his desk in favor of conversing with Lizzie, which is always far more entertaining.

 _I don’t love u and ur an idiot,_ Lizzie states bluntly. Darcy doesn’t take it personally. It’s a form of endearment coming from Lizzie. _Just tell him u need to kno if he luvs u back._

_What do you even know about it you date women and have too many piercings._

_Fuc u I swing both ways don’t pretend u don’t know otherwise,_ she shoots back. _Cos u’ll never be happy until u kno he luvs u._

Darcy chuckles. Of all the Bennets Lizzie is his favorite, not that he’d ever tell her as much. He found her instantly charming, with her partially shaved head and blue streaks in the long brown waves cascading down the other half of her head, her propensity for foul and abrasive language that makes Jane blush and cringe simultaneously.

He thinks she’s a riot, so naturally he tells her he hates her at least once a week.

 _I hate you,_ he texts.

 _Fine but u kno I'm rite,_ Lizzie replies.

 _I hate you,_ he texts again, just out of spite.

 _I kno,_ she sends back with an obnoxious purple heart emoji.

Darcy shoves his phone in his desk drawer and pretends that Lizzie isn’t completely right until he has no more work to distract himself with and he has to go home for the day.

***

 _Hey E let’s get dinner tonight, if you’re free,_ Darcy texts.

 _I mean, I work but I can try and get Christopher to let me off for the night,_ Eeyore responds, not even three seconds later.

 _Let me know and I’ll make the reservation,_ he sends, then adds: _it’s not like you don’t work whenever they want. If Christopher Robin can’t find like, Kanga or someone to cover for you this one time I would be surprised._

 _Yeah I'm good._ The response comes a few minutes later. _Robin got Win to come in and cover my shift so, yeah, I can do dinner with u since she’s taking my shift._

 _Good. I’ll pick you up around eight,_ Darcy replies back.

Eeyore doesn’t bother to send a response to that, not that he ever does anyway, and Darcy can’t still the slight tremor in his right hand, so he does the one thing guaranteed to keep him from getting too nervous.

 _I'm taking him out to dinner tonight and I'm going to ask him,_ he sends to Lizzie before he can question if it’s actually a good idea.

 _R u just gonna purpose just liek that?_ Comes the _immediate_ response. _Ur a brave mofucker I’ll give u that_

 _Good grief woman, no._ He attempts to pour as much disdain into a text as humanly possible. _I am a_ gentleman _._

_I don’t c y that makes a difference._

_I hate you so much._

_Cock_

Darcy shoves his phone in his desk drawer and doesn’t look at it again until it’s time to leave to pick up Eeyore for dinner.

 

It takes Darcy an embarrassingly long time to ask, so it’s when they’re almost finished with dinner that he blurts, without any of his usual finesse and tact, “You love me, right? Like, you’re not just with me for the amazing sex, right?”

Eeyore squints at him in confusion. “The fuck? Darc, we’ve literally been fucking for two months without condoms, did you really think I didn’t?”

“Wait, you actually do?”

“I’ve made it so obvious I literally can’t believe you have to ask,” Eeyore says, with one of the most insulted expressions on his face that Darcy has ever seen cross his normally stoic face.

“I just wasn’t sure? I wanted to make sure you felt the same way I guess,” Darcy scrambles for an explanation and he can tell by the increasingly outraged expression on Eeyore’s face that he isn’t doing a good enough job.

Eeyore drops his napkin on the table and moves to stand up. “I cannot believe you thought I was with you for the sex.”

“I don’t ac—”

“No,” Eeyore interrupts him, standing up. “I’m done for tonight. I’ll see you later.”

Before Darcy can say anything, Eeyore turns and walks away.

 _That could have gone better,_ he texts Lizzie once he’s recovered enough to process what just happened.

 _I knew u’d fuck it up,_ Lizzie replies.

Darcy sighs and just signals for the check.

_Tell jane she owes me twenty quid._

_Damn it, Elizabeth._

***

 _Of course I love u, u oblivious idiot,_ Eeyore texts him the next night.

Darcy’s immediate, overwhelming rush of relief is so strong that he must clutch a chair to keep from falling over.

 _I’m coming over,_ he sends back, scrambling to find his shoes and the keys to his bike.

His phone buzzes again and he hastily pulls it from his pocket as he shrugs into his black leather riding jacket and he—

A ghost emoji.

Eeyore’s texted him a _ghost emoji_.

 _Fuck you that’s my thing,_ Darcy types, stomach swooping, and it’s not at all unlike the first time Eeyore sent him a dimly lit picture of Eeyore looking up at the camera from under an unfair amount of long, thick eyelashes and the dark fringe of his hair managing to look really, really mouthwatering despite the gross fluorescent lighting and the copious amounts of plaid in the background of his room.

Darcy’s phone vibrates again. This time, there are _two_ ghost emojis.

 _I love you so much it hurts,_ Darcy replies, helplessly fond.

 

Eeyore’s basically  _naked_ when he answers the door at his dumb London brownstone.

“You’re a moron,” he snaps, scratching at his bare torso. He doesn’t even have the decency to  _greet_  Darcy. Or pretend to be happy about his arrival. Dick. “I cannot believe that you thought I was just using you for the sex. I—I legitimately could not believe my luck when you walked into the Hundred-acre Wood like the literal British god that you are and started hitting on me.”

Darcy blinks. “Wait, really?”

Eeyore’s mouth opens, and then closes, and then opens again. “Have you been paying  _any attention_ to me at all?” he demands.

Darcy rears back, appalled and offended and  _aghast._  “Of fucking course.”

Eeyore jabs a finger in the middle of Darcy’s chest. “Well, you should have seen the signs. I sat through _dinner parties_ with Charles and Jane.”

Darcy sniffs. “They’re not that bad.”

Eeyore give him a flat look. “They are and you know it. If it wasn’t for their damn cat I would actually _die_ at those dinners.”

All at once everything Eeyore is saying, has been saying for the last few months they’ve been dating, hits Darcy, and he smiles, smug. “You love me.”

Eeyore glares. “Don’t—stop  _looking_  like that.”

“Like what?”

“Smug. Don’t be smug. You almost fucked everything up.”

Darcy smirks. “ _Almost_.”

Eeyore’s eyes narrow, even as his lips twitch upwards, flatten into an unimpressed line, and then twitch back down—and then he’s pulling his phone out from the pocket of his shorts, making a big deal about typing in his password and scrolling through his messages and—

“What’s this?” he drawls in an overloud monotone. “From _Fitzwilliam Darcy,_ today, at 11:14 in the morning, and I quote _,_   _‘I love you so mu—_ ’”

“So!” Darcy interrupts, lifting his chin to hide the electric pink heat of his blush. “I haven’t gotten to suck your dick in, like, two days. Withdrawals are a thing. I saw it on  _Intervention_.”

Eeyore stares at him for a while, features spasming with something like incredulously affectionate disgust. “I’m  _attracted_  to you right now,” he mumbles. “What the  _fuck_.”

“Fuck you,” Darcy automatically replies, fighting off a truly stupid grin. “I’m trying to offer you an apology blowjob.”

He is a gentleman, after all.

Eeyore chokes out a laugh. “You just told me you were having  _withdrawals_  you missed my dick so much, I don’t really think it counts as an apology if you’re fucking gagging for it.”

Darcy’s mouth floods with saliva, and his throat tightens and his gut  _clenches_  and he doesn’t know what his face is doing right now but it must be advertising at least a little of his seriously incomprehensible desire to get on with the makeup sex because Eeyore’s gaze is going dark and focused like it does when he’s about to score and Darcy—Darcy’s been mortifyingly easy for Eeyore’s smile and Eeyore’s coffee and Eeyore’s  _everything_  for  _months_. It’s the best kind of head rush to realize he hasn’t been alone in that.

“Yeah,” Darcy murmurs, tongue darting out to tap once, and then twice, and then go still against his bottom lip. “Fucking gagging for it.”

Eeyore grabs the front of Darcy’s shirt, hauling him in for a kiss that’s messy and filthy and definitely going to leave a mark—

“Same,” Eeyore eventually whispers into his neck. “Same.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologize to literally everyone for this. 
> 
> I am going to go and die now. 
> 
> [Tumblr](https://mysoulrunswithwolves.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfstar_soul)


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